Print Anthology

writingdirty_ad_470

Writing Dirty: Erotic Stories by Jack Stratton, now in print!

buy2._V192207737_

Available on Amazon and CreateSpace

Here’s what people are saying about Writing Dirty:

“Jack Stratton’s erotica is deep, dirty, and thoughtful… he often writes from the dominant’s perspective, which is more rare in erotica than you would think, and his explorations of sadism are insightful and transformative. I often see my own play differently after reading his work. And of course they’re just plain sexy, turning me on and inspiring my desire.”
Sinclair Sexsmith, author of Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica

“This book proves that you can write sexy BDSM that includes condoms, consent, and communication. And really great sex scenes with as much
tension as anything I’ve read in a long time.”
Guy New York, author of Brorotica

“This story worked as my introduction to the possibility of negotiation in the context of SM relationships and how regular people might do it. But of course the story is very hot, which makes everything to do with it seem appealing. Our hero is likable, self-depracating and sometimes confused… Did I mention this story is hot?”

“Pretty much anything by Jack Stratton is worth reading.”

“Kindle’s King of Taboo Titillation, Jack Stratton, scores five points from my “judges” with this coming, of-age sexual awakening and deep, satisfying life experiences.”
– Amazon Reviews

Banged For My Pokéstop: How Pokémon Got Me Laid

Because I am a nerd trying to find a niche market, I give you: Banged For My Pokéstop: How Pokémon Got Me Laid. The finest in Pokemon erotica.

Excerpt:

pokestop“Ok, ok, so we are just bored girls who don’t want to go out in the heat and we want to play our game, but it would be twenty times more fun to play it in here, since you have both a PokéStop and intense air conditioning magic so we are willing to, you know, get topless and stuff,” she said, still seeming to be hypnotized by the smell of the pizza.

“And stuff?” he said, opening the box and taking out a slice.

She watched him take bite, licking her lips.

“Yeah, you can, like, touch our tits. Not like, the whole time, but when there are no Pokémon around, we will let you feel us up and maybe we’ll make out with you and stuff,” she explained, the last words trailing into slight mumbling.

Mark finished the slice in a few large bites, then he washed it down with his beer.

“Both of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Making out and ‘feel you up?’ That’s kind of sounds like high school doesn’t it?”

“Kinda. That’s kinda hot, right?” she said with a wide sly smile.

Mark tried to fight the smile, but he nodded and laughed.

“Kinda,” he agreed.

 

New Girls

He laughed his cruel laugh again as she felt the old rug grind against her naked knees.

“Listen, you’re just the new girl, you don’t think you deserve my cock all for yourself do you?”

The two other girls smirked and snickered.

She wasn’t a person really. Not that night. She was just one of three sluts kneeling at his cock.

Some part of her recoiled, knowing how fucked up it was, but a much stronger part of her wet her lips, assuring her that she would show them. She would suck the best and he would realize she was the best toy. He would see past those other girls, she just knew it.

But in her contemplation she had missed some signal he gave and the other girls had descended on his cock before she could. She could only hover near it, watching their greedy pink lips suck, waiting for them to give her enough room, unable to to do anything but lean in because of her bound hands behind her back.

The situation made her dizzy and confused and so wet she could feel her inner thighs slick with her messy need.

The Routine

It felt good to have daily routines. It made her feel rooted. The same breakfast every morning; oatmeal with a banana in the winter and fall, yogurt and granola in the summer and spring. She always took the 8:14am train into the city. She always got to the station early and bought the Times and a medium coffee; skim milk, no sugar.

Three days a week she went to the gym before work. Chest and biceps on Tuesday, shoulder and triceps on Thursday, and back and legs on Saturday.

On Sundays she made and packed lunches for the week. A lean protein, two vegetables, no starch, and a piece of fruit.

On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays after work she took the subway downtown instead of getting the PATH train home and stopped for an hour or so at his apartment.


Continue reading

The Little Bird Part 3/3

Jason froze.

From the living room he heard the sounds of the front door closing and locking, then a jacket being hung up in the closet, then someone walking around, then silence.

He hopped off the bed and grabbed his jeans, almost falling over as he pulled them on.

“Jason?” said Ray from the other side of the bedroom door.

“Um, yeah?” Jason answered.

“Sorry to come back unannounced, but you weren’t answering your texts.“

Jason didn’t know what to say.

“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t leave her all alone or get freaked out or anything,” Ray added.

“Um, no. We’re cool,” Jay said, looking at the mostly naked girl who had a rather bemused smile.

“Can I come in?” Ray asked rather seriously.


Continue reading

The Little Bird 2/3

In his best friend’s bedroom, holding the leash of a mostly naked girl, Jason listened for the slamming of the apartment door.

When the sound came he closed his eyes and thought deeply about his situation.

He was still high on the kisses of his first date with a pretty girl. His body was still primed to fuck. In his hand was the leash of a girl who had been kept in a cage consensually, made to masturbate, but not come, every few hours, and who was now ordered to do anything he wanted.

A slow electric feeling flooded his veins. Power. Power, desire, and confusion.

He looked down at her, kneeling at his feet. She was a pretty thing, oval face dominated by wide eyes amplified by thick black eye makeup that came to winged points. Her lips were fat and perfectly painted as well, a dark matte red.

“Anything you want.”


Continue reading

The Little Bird Part 1/3

Sometimes after a really good first date, you walk around in a daze. A stupid grin plastered on your face, a drunken wobble in your gate, and a fog over your eyes.

That’s where Jason was as he made his way through the east Village and up to the apartment of his best friend Ray.

Ray opened the door and immediately rolled his eyes at his friend’s swooning smile.

“Oh boy, not again,” he said, letting Jason float into his apartment.

“No man, this is serious, I’m in-” Jason started but Ray stopped him.

“Don’t say it, don’t say it, I know, you’re in love. At least wait until the second date to tell her,” he laughed as he popped opened each of them a beer.


Continue reading

The Order of Dionysus: The Pass

There really wasn’t anything special about her. Well, other than her curiosity.

I saw her almost every day on the A train. She often wore that sort of post collegiate uniform of the early 2000s; tight dark blue jeans tucked into calf high leather boots, a gauzy white blouse, various Anthropology accessories.

Yet there was something unique about her smile and the way she looked around the subway car. No phone in her hand, no book, just perusing people.

Admittedly, there was also her tits and her hips and her ass. They were large. Her breasts were almost too large for her frame, though they were often camouflaged by her loose blouses, though occasionally on display with a low cut sweater.

That day it was a tight, light gray, low cut blouse with a wine colored cardigan over it. The deep line of her cleavage extra pronounced because of her rather awkward position between a bespectacled octogenarian and shopping bag laden hausfrau.

It wasn’t the first day I noticed it, but that day she was rather prominently displaying a symbolic pin on her jacket. It was the golden symbol of The Order of Dionysus. A bunch of grapes, resplendent with leaves and tendrils, and in the center a little O and a little D. The letters only really recognisable to someone in the know.


Continue reading

Bottoming to a Man

He was a somewhat famous and remarkably talented artist and educator. Ten years older than me, or so. He was taller and broader than me, with a large thick beard. We had met and spoken a few times, but he saw me walking around at an event with my pant legs folded up with purple socks and sock garters and he complimented me on my calves. He later approached me and said he would love to cane my calves. I accepted, nervously.

There was something very different about the way he grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and pushed me against a wall. He asked if I would be a good boy for him. I nodded, “yessir,” my head going into a very different space that I was used to.

Then he started hitting me, reasonably hard, on the calves with various thickness of canes. Most of the time he held me by the back of my neck of pit his large hand on my back to steady me. It’s something I started doing in scenes, maintaining a physical connection and a reminder of control.

As usual, I became pretty stoic, just my hands on the wall, my jaw tight, taking every strike silently. He wasn’t having that though, he roughed me up, pull me out of my trance.

The scene went on and finally he asked if I could take “five of his best.”

I eagerly agree. My head and body had transitioned to a place where I could take a lot of pain and transform it into something else. Pleasure? Power? Something. I was greedy for more and getting cocky.

He pulled back with a thick rattan cane and thwack. Then again. Then he leaned in and asked “aren’t you going to count for me?”

I smiled up at him.

“Oh, did you start?” I bratted.

His smile became huge. “Oh, thank you for saying that,” he said, going to his back and getting a much meaner resin cane.

Cocky bratty Jack lasted one one or two hits. Then my knees buckled and I could stand up.

The Valet

The dry cleaner (a lovely woman from Belarus, I believe) had my order hanging near the cash register, waiting for me. She tried to brush away my tip, but as always she eventually conceded with a smile and daintily shoved the few extra dollars (as daintily as someone can shove something) into her vast brassiere.

Usually by 8:30, which my pocketwatch told me it had just struck, I’d be making coffee, but since my employer was “with guest” and the various grinding of beans and screaming of espresso making apparati would, I’m sure, be a less than ideal wake up call, I was out running the errands which I usually saved for later in the day.

The mornings when my employer had an overnight guest (or guests, as sometimes happens) were some of the most challenging in my professional life, I assure you. Still, in their own way, they were some of the most rewarding.


Continue reading